20346097One month. Four weeks. Thirty one day. That is how long it is before “Our Heroine” opens her own private chef/catering company. In. Princeton. OK. Got the setup?

Four weeks until OH opens her business in one of the toniest towns in the United States. And yet, she fights her daughter tooth-and-claw against going to the Princeton Small Business Meeting. Because, really, who goes to small business meetings when it is a Whole. Four. Weeks. Before you open your business!? A meeting where the best potential to get her business off the ground with a roaring start lies thick upon the ground.

Uh, HELLO! Your 10-year-old daughter is WAY brighter than you are. She even set you up with a client – A. Client. – Who plans to pay you quite a bit more for your wares than you thought possible. All you have to do? Show up, look professional, and talk to the client. Easy enough, one would think. Well, if you have any sort of intelligence, business savvy, or plain old common horse sense.

So. What does the intrepid OH do? Instead of dressing nicely, fitting for a budding entrepreneur in Princeton – oh, maybe nice slacks and a sweater? A nice pair of earrings and, Hey! Here’s a thought! Maybe brush your hair? – You throw a pout, throw on a grungy, flour-sprinkled sweater and cords, toss your hair up, and walk out the door without a smidgen of makeup, or the aforementioned earrings, no matter how your (incredibly intelligent, and with a crud ton more business savvy than you will apparently ever have – no matter how many school books you read or tests you take) tries to, very reasonably, encourage you to do so, and show up looking like a street urchin come in from the rain. Or, in her case, you get taken for 1) the maid, there to make coffee and clean up crumbs, and 2) the hat check girl. Both of which, of course, occurred.

Well. DUH!

I simply put the book down and walked away at that point. A dumb-arse like her doesn’t deserve to be successful. Pouty, sulky, miserably un-businesslike, totally lacking in marketing savvy (no matter the aforementioned business education studies), hard-headed to the point where I expected her to suddenly start throwing her arms around, stomping her feet and screaming “I don’t WANNA!!!” like a two-year-old? Ugh. Spare me. I wanted to slap her – then find a good home for her kid.

Oh, and the “luuuvvv” interest? Camel smoker. Yep. “Hey! I know! I will fall for the Walking Cancer Factory! Cool! I can bury him before my brilliant daughter is in college – after he eats up all our savings in chemo and radiation, that is.”

Bah. Humbug.

DNF. And now I have to go find another Christmas book to get the bad taste out of my mouth!

And WHAT is with that cover, anyway? The woman’s daughter is TEN, not ten months!